


The Final Stand

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [25]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Archdemon - Freeform, Battle of Denerim, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Denerim was in flames. Debris from buildings that had once stood firm was now strewn across the abandoned streets; the townspeople had taken refuge in the Chantry, or basement rooms that were deep enough to escape the notice of the darkspawn, while war raged on around them.

The combined forces that had been conscripted over the course of a long year had managed to carve a path through the city gates and knew the rest of the city lay ahead, infested with darkspawn. The Archdemon was somewhere close, the three remaining Grey Wardens of Ferelden could feel it in their bones.

Riordan had told the Dalish ranger they needed to push onwards, make it to Fort Drakon, and it would be easier with only four party members. The rest were needed to hold the city gates they’d just finished clawing back under their control, help Arl Eamon’s forces against any darkspawn reinforcements that tried to reach the city. The walls around Denerim were too high and thick to be scaled or knocked down, so the gates were the choke points, crucial.

Because Alistair was going with him to Fort Drakon, that meant that Sten was in charge of the remainder of the group.

“As it should be.” He’d said, nodding once in approval at the Dalish elf’s decision.

Theron looked around at his assembled group in the few minutes they had to breathe before pressing further into the city. The ranger had chosen who would accompany him; Alistair, Wynne and Morrigan. He had been indecisive about the apostate mage, dark memories still lingered. They hadn’t spoken since that night, and Theron still felt the faint pangs of guilt and unease whenever he found himself close to the mage. But he knew she would be useful as they cut a path through Denerim, regardless of what had happened between them. Practicality over his own feelings every time when it came to fights, and it was doubly important now, of all times.

“Ah, so you’re heading off to fight the darkspawn and that terrible dragon without me, hm?” Zevran asked, keeping his tone lighthearted as he stood just a short distance away from the other elf. Theron hesitated, and then nodded. He’d tried to make a logical reason out of leaving the other elf, his lover, behind. One that wasn’t simply, _I love you too much to risk you being killed by a corrupted dragon, and if the ritual fails, I don’t want you to see me die._

“You’d be a bigger help down here at the gates.” Theron shrugged, forcing himself to keep his voice just as lighthearted. Both of them knew it was an excuse, and a bad one at that.

“Excellent plan, dear Warden.” Zevran smiled after a brief pause. “Say hello to the Archdemon for me, would you? He never writes anymore, it’s rather distressing.” He added, forcing a smile and then turning his head to look at the taller human waiting close by. “Alistair, I am trusting you to watch our dear ranger’s back. No getting eaten, either of you. Unless it’s truly important, of course.”

“All right, all right, _mother_.” Alistair shot back. 

“If you do not come back in one piece, however…” The Antivan said, looking back at the other elf as his voice trailed off.

“I know, I know. I’ll try to be careful, with the threat of you doing something terrible to me if I come back with even a hair out of place.” Theron answered, shifting his weight from one foot to another. They were quiet for a moment, and hyperaware of everything that they had yet to say to each other, that they’d already said every night leading up to now.

“Whatever happens, I love you.” The ranger said quickly, getting it out there. Zevran’s gaze softened, and his easy smirk of self-assurance faltered.

“Ah, cruel to the end.” The blond sighed. “Then I want you to know, if now is the time for heartfelt confessions, that assassinating you was the best thing that could have happened to me.”

Theron almost laughed at that, but all he did was smile weakly as Zevran turned and walked away, trying to draw strength from the hope that the other elf would indeed be safer down here. Of course he knew Zevran could take care of himself, had improved vastly with his weapons after training for much of a year with Leliana and Alistair, even sparring with Sten once or twice if he wanted a true challenge. He’d taken down ogres, demons and twisted arcane horrors with something approaching glee; he’d be fine here, fully capable. But Theron couldn’t stop worrying, about Zevran or indeed any of the others of their party.

Oghren was next, and for once he seemed to be completely sober.

“This is it, Warden. ‘When from the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail as the blighters lie dead.’” The dwarf nodded to himself, looking around at the battlefield. “As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you.” He continued firmly, looking up at the elf that had led him so far. “Let’s show them our hearts, and then show ‘em theirs.”

“Oghren, if you want to start crying, I’m not going to judge.” Theron teased, and the dwarf narrowed his eyes.

“Of course I’m not gonna cry, yah swishy, berry-eating…” Oghren seemed to struggle to finish off that insult, and settled for a vague grumble of annoyance.

“It’s been an honour fighting with you, Oghren.” The ranger continued.

“Likewise. You’re not a bad fighter, for an elf. But me and honour? Nobody’s looked at me and seen honour in a long time, Warden. I… I wanted to thank you for… Ah, I don’t know. Helpin' me with Felsi, I suppose. I might see her again for that pint when all this is over, and see if there’s anything still there for me.” The dwarven berserker shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with bearing his heart so completely. “I wanna say something, before you go off to kill that sodding dragon. You took in a drunken disgrace of an Orzammar warrior. You gave me a reason to fight and the will to keep goin’, You helped me find the one woman in the whole sodding world who might put up with me, and you helped me get past Branka so I could have someone new. I owe you a lot. And I consider it a fine honour to die for you and your cause.”

The Dalish elf nodded.

“We’ll talk about honour after we all survive this.”

Oghren frowned up at him, running a hand over his beard.

“Hm, not one for facin’ the facts, are you? Aye, I’ll play along.”

Theron sighed to himself, knowing that he would almost certainly survive killing the Archdemon if the ritual worked, unless something else killed him first. The secret was his to bear alone.

“Let the stone turn red from the blood of heroes. Today I will be the warrior you taught me to be.” With that, Oghren walked away as well.

The rest of the goodbyes were shorter, but no less loyal. Oghren's words had stuck with him, and as Theron looked at them he realised why. They were all disgraces and outcasts, in one way or another. The scraps that didn’t fit into their roles in society, like their leader. They’d all stood by him, and after this, who knew how long the group would continue. It felt odd to think about, but the Blight and the Archdemon had brought them together. If there hadn’t been the threat of the world being plunged into chaos in the first place, he’d probably never have left the Brecilian Forest. He’d most likely never have met any of the group, and he doubted that any of them would have met each other.

Theron was aware of Riordan waiting as patiently as he could under the circumstances, and knew he would have to prepare himself for perhaps the longest, most difficult fight of his life. He’d had his time for reflection now, but he paused to look over the assembled group one last time, hoping that they would all see each other again once the dust had settled, or whatever would happen when the Archdemon died.

The ranger’s gaze lingered on Zevran, and for a moment he wished that the former Crow could be somewhere safer than the middle of a battlefield. Yet this was where he belonged, where they both did. As Wynne had said, everything they’d been through led up to this, the here and now. There was no turning back, no point in worrying over things said or unsaid, or what could have been done differently.

The Dalish elf took a deep breath, rolling his tense shoulders, and then led the selected trio over to the senior Grey Warden, gripping his bow firmly.


	2. Chapter 2

In a way, Zevran was glad that he hadn’t been chosen to go with Theron. It meant he wasn’t having to constantly look around to make sure the ranger wasn’t about to be set upon by someone with a sword or club - of course, he still did anyway, a new reflex born out of habit and countless fights. Naturally, he worried about the Dalish elf as the fighting drew on, in the brief seconds he had to clear his mind between stabbing darkspawn or following Sten’s bellowed orders.

Would Theron be okay? Had he made it to Fort Drakon yet? What if he ran out of arrows?

Those questions did little to ease the gnawing feeling in his stomach of fear and worry, something he had not felt in such a long time that it may as well be a completely new and unfamiliar experience.

His blades flashed as he decapitated a genlock that had decided to try it’s luck against a former Antivan Crow, stepping back and firmly pressing his lips together against the spray of blood as it’s body fell. He needed to kill, find anything to distract him from his fear that maybe Theron would not come back down from the top of Fort Drakon.

He looked up wildly towards the top of the distinctive building that rose above the city, eyes widening as he caught the beginning of a bright light flaring, as bright as the sun against the smoke-filled sky, and he was forced to look away or be blinded. It seemed that everyone around him - darkspawn attackers included - faltered for a brief instant at the unexpected sight and then the blast that followed, shaking the earth.

A lump rose in Zevran’s throat, and then he was running through the battle into the city. He was dimly aware that Dudain was following, or perhaps had the same worrying thought in mind and was running with him.

“Zevran, stop! We don’t know if it’s safe!” Leliana called after him, but her words fell on deaf ears as elf and dog kept running.

It was easy to see the road that the four of them had taken through Denerim - the market district was in shambles, the bodies of two ogres lay in the alienage amid the shattered remains of a barricade. Darkspawn blood ran down the steps of Fort Drakon. This time there were no guards to talk his way past. There were some lingering darkspawn that jumped from the corners, but the assassin and the war hound were more than ready for them.

Finding _Sandal_ deep in the bowels of the fort was completely unexpected, let alone in a room with scattered lumps of darkspawn carcasses. It was enough to make Zevran skitter to a halt on the blood-slick floor and stare in disbelief, a good few dozen questions running through his mind as he stared at the young dwarf, with no time to ask them. He merely nodded in the end, wiped a smear of blood from his cheek, and pressed on.

He burst out onto the roof, looking around wildly at the destruction. The bodies of darkspawn and men littered the rooftop, massive ballistas smoked. The air stank of corruption and the sharp ozone of magic. Zevran was vaguely aware of what remained of the gathered forces they’d spent the year gathering slowly reorganising themselves, helping the wounded to walk, carrying those that couldn’t.

Something skittered in the corner of his eye, and he saw a giant, bloodstained spider shudder and then turn into a black-haired apostate, her bare back to him. She looked over her shoulder at the elf, yellow eyes wide and expression one of momentary shock that didn’t seem to be directed at his sudden appearance, and then she was gone again, hair turning to feathers and arms becoming wings. Clutching her staff, the large, sharp-beaked bird lifted up from the rooftop with heavy wingbeats, wheeling away through the smoke and up into the red sky beyond.

Dudain had run on ahead, and the Antivan followed, dismissing the witch entirely. They reached what seemed like the centre of the roof, and Zevran stumbled to a halt as he saw the massive form of the Archdemon lying slumped, wings splayed and teeth bared. There was a large, deep purple-red line that cut from the top of it’s jaw down to it’s breastbone; the underside of the throat had almost been severed in two, and red-black blood spilled like an oil slick. There was so much of it...

The Antivan caught the gleam of blood-streaked armour, and realised Alistair and Wynne were standing near to the fallen creature, looking down at something or someone. Dudain was standing between them, and Zevran’s stomach lurched when the dog lifted his head up to howl.

“No!” It took him a second to realise that he had been the one to shout it as he ran over, Alistair only just quick enough to catch him. The blond stared down at the blood-covered form lying in front of them, and his knees almost gave out then and there. It was Theron, the side of his leather armour torn to shreds by large claws, or perhaps teeth. There were three half-healed gashes that sliced across his skin, gleaming wet with blood.

“Zevran-” Wynne began, smoothing her robes down. Judging from the blood that clung to the front of her robes at the knees, she must have been kneeling down, trying to fix what she could.

“He can’t.” The Antivan cut her off, shaking his head. _He can’t do this to me. Not after everything we have been through. Not after what he said. He can’t be dead, he can’t. He can't leave me._

“Can I-” The healer continued, and Zevran only just stopped himself from rounding on her, or giving in and crying like a child. It was really only Alistair’s arm on his shoulder keeping him upright now.

“Maker, no.”

Zevran stared down at the Dalish elf underneath the gore, skin horribly cold. There was an equally bloody sword lying close to one of his hands - since when did Theron ever use a sword? It explained the gash that slit the dragon’s throat, however. The ranger’s helmet, the one piece of armor he rarely used due to his disdain for it, had been knocked askew by the blast or the fall to the floor, hid some of his face, but his eyes were closed.

“Zev, he's alive.” Alistair said, and the elf’s head whipped up in disbelief, sure that he had imagined it.

There was a ragged gasp from the floor in front of them, and then Theron was trying to turn on his side to cough up blood and bile; Wynne knelt down again to help him. Zevran felt his knees weaken, and Alistair had to grab him again to ensure he didn’t fall to the ground.

“A few broken ribs, lacerations, concussion, internal bleeding and he's ingested a copious amount of darkspawn blood, but for all intents and purposes Theron’s survived.” The elderly mage reported over the sounds of the ranger emptying his stomach and coughing up his lungs, weary relief in every inch of her kneeling form.

“He’s not dead.” Zevran mumbled to himself, staring down wide-eyed at the other elf. Yes, he was covered in blood - his own and the Archdemon’s, face screwed up in agony, but he was _alive_.

The ranger mumbled something incoherent, weakly returning to lie on his back once the sickness had passed.

“What was that, dear?” Wynne asked, one glowing hand fluttering over Theron’s chest as she reassessed the internal damage.

“‘M not dead.” The Dalish elf wheezed, sounding as stunned by the fact as the rest of them were. His eyelids fluttered, and he coughed violently. Blood welled from the clawmarks gouged out of his side, stained the already ruined drakeskin leather armour. “Just… Resting.” He added weakly, even half-conscious daring anyone to say otherwise. Zevran could have sobbed for joy.

With what was no doubt a supreme effort, Theron opened one eye and then the other, staring blankly up at the sky overhead with unfocused eyes. He let out a quiet groan, and shut them again.

“Alistair, do you think you’ll be able to carry him? We should move him, we may not be safe up here yet.” Wynne asked, getting to her feet and turning. The ex-Templar nodded, and Zevran made himself stand on his own two feet, hands clenched at his sides in an attempt to stop them shaking as the human stepped forwards and crouched down, gathering the ranger up. In the larger, armoured human’s arms, Theron looked so _small_ and fragile, and from the way his head lolled he must had sunk back into unconsciousness again.

Zevran watched as Alistair slowly began to walk to the nearest doorway, and then he looked around in wild concern. He found what he wanted after a few seconds, and all but lunged for the dropped longbow. It seemed to have endured as well, apart from a few scorchmarks and bloodstains on the carved wood. The Antivan held it in his hands, staring down at it until his vision blurred. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see the healer.

“He’s injured, but I’m sure he’ll pull through. He always has before.” Wynne said reassuringly. Zevran blinked, feeling tears dripping down his cheeks unbidden. He bowed his head, and then felt a hand carefully drawing him close, a soft “Come here, dear.”

He realised halfway through that he’d finally achieved something he’d only ever joked about before, but he was more concerned with actually crying to note whether Wynne’s bosom was magical or not.

They had all survived, every last one of them. Theron had cheated death itself, killed the Archdemon and lived. Zevran's grip on the bow tightened until his knuckles turned white as his shoulders shook with the force of his sobs.


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, Zevran found himself sitting an inconspicuous vigil in the room while healers worked on Theron. Wynne was not one of them; she was busy tending to Sten in the next room, and there was no doubt that she would continue to be as busy as the rest of the healers for the next few days, doing her part to help the hundreds if not thousands of injured fighters and civilians to recover.

Somewhat ironically, Fort Drakon had been voted on the best place to move the injured soldiers, due to both it’s size that would allow for so many more cots, and the fact it was almost completely undamaged after the battle. The thick stone walls had served it well through yet another war. The Chantry out in the city proper was simply too small, and so that was reserved for the civilians, the injured and those that had lost their homes or families.

It had been a tense night while the healers worked, and although nothing had been said to him Zevran knew there had been at least one point when Theron had almost died even with healing magic being actively cast. He had been unconscious for much of the treatment, allowing them to set his ribs and tend to the internal injuries as smoothly as possible. The few times he had woken and been aware of his surroundings, he’d been given water laced with a herb to make him sick, in an attempt to get rid of as much of the darkspawn blood he’d inadvertently swallowed as possible. He may have been a Grey Warden, immune to it’s effects, but the healers hadn’t wanted to take chances when he was in such a perilous state.

Zevran had barely left the room since Theron had been placed in it; Alistair had almost had to drag him out so Wynne could check him over, and Leliana made sure he had regular meals with the rest of  them. Apparently even the dog had gotten a healer’s attention.

Now the immediate dangers were over, people were wondering just where Morrigan had gone. Zevran, personally, was convinced that she had completed some kind of mission, either for Flemeth or her own gains, and had had no wish to stay around longer than absolutely necessary, even if it had meant she had disappeared almost before the end of the battle. As far as the Antivan was aware, she hadn’t come back yet. Perhaps she never would. Regardless, he had no wish to inform the others of what he had seen on the rooftop. Not yet.

The blond sighed, rubbing at his sore eyes as he leaned back in his chair. Denerim was slowly piecing itself back together, clearing rubble and figuring what was in need of repair the most. The rest of the city felt like a world away, and the fort felt like another country. Zevran’s world had narrowed down to this one dimly lit room, and the figure lying on the bed at the other end of it.

Zevran’s eyes drooped closed of their own volition, but he jerked his head up determinedly. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had last slept sitting in the chair, but perhaps it had been long enough. The healer on duty seemed to be a capable man, even if he did keep casting the Antivan irritated glares every so often when he came to check on one elf and found the other camped out in a shadowy corner.

Theron’s body seemed to have mostly healed by now. The three gashes were raised pink scars now, almost certainly permanent despite how they would fade with further healing spells and time, he seemed to have recovered from the concussion, and he was no longer coughing up blood or wheezing painfully whenever he drew breath, chest rising slowly and steadily. His expression was relaxed, peaceful in sleep while it was drawn in pain in the fleeting moments when he was awake more often than not.

Zevran supposed he could allow himself to relax for now, enough to fall asleep. Perhaps when he next woke, Theron would be conscious as well.

 

Theron struggled to open his eyes, but when he eventually did it was to the dim glow of candlelight in a dark stone room. He blinked slowly, staring up at the ceiling as his eyes tried to focus. He felt warm, but his back was stiff and his whole body ached. Was he in a bed? He could feel sheets on his bare arms and chest, and figured the answer was positive.

He tried to stir, but he felt so weak. Even turning his head was an effort, but he found himself staring glassily at a half-open door. Why was he so weak? Blood loss? A hollow feeling in his stomach answered. No, just very hungry. How long had he been unconscious?

Everything hurt, it was too much to take in at once. He took in a careful breath, and felt the darkness rising up to ensnare him again, a soft promise of a painless sleep. He was too weak to do anything but close his eyes and allow it.

 

When he woke up again, he was aware of the smell of steam. Something warm nudged against his lips, and they parted automatically. Warm liquid trickled down over his tongue, a tiny spoonful of something, not enough to choke him lying down. The spoon was withdrawn, and the ranger swallowed thickly, reflexively. His throat hurt, burned. The water, or whatever it had been, eased the stickiness of his tongue slightly, and then there was another spoonful being gently maneuvered past his teeth. His tongue worked, realising it was more than plain warm water. There was a flavour to it, something meaty. A very thin broth?

Theron tried to open his eyes again, frowning slightly. He felt a warm hand on his cheek.

“Hush, _mi amor_ , you are safe.”

A few meagre spoonfuls later and the darkness was closing in again, the low and reassuring voice fading to background noise. He wouldn’t remember it, but it was a baby step in getting his strength back.

 

It took the Dalish elf a week before he could stay conscious for long enough to recognise his immediate surroundings and talk. Every time he woke up it was for a little longer, strength gradually coming back as he was progressively fed more and more, his injuries completely healed and much of the pain gone as his body rested itself extensively to the point of verging on a coma.

“... Day’sit?” He mumbled sluggishly, forcing his eyes open this time, fighting to stay awake.

“Tuesday the twelfth of Cloudreach.” Zevran supplied from where he was sat at the ranger’s bedside, and Theron’s wide gaze found him.

“Uh.” The ranger practically croaked in surprise, the noise catching in his dry throat.

“Before you ask again, yes, I have been here all of the time.” The Antivan continued, and Theron couldn’t help noticing how it showed. There were shadows under the other elf’s eyes, a slightly grim set to his mouth, and his usually pristine hair was in disarray, lank and the ends knotted. He looked haggard, and truly worn out. Zevran smiled faintly, and tutted. “Your memory needs some improvement, I think.” He added. Theron could only take from that the implication that this wasn’t the first time he’d asked what day it was. Everything was a blur whenever he woke up, including Zevran’s constant presence, and Wynne or the others’ occasional visits.

“Should sleep.” The ranger suggested, still watching Zevran. He lacked the energy to form complete sentences, even despite his usual taciturn state, but they both knew how few words were really needed to get a message across.

“My dear Warden, I think you have slept enough to last you a year already.”

Theron let out an irritated huff.

“No. You should.” He clarified, giving the Antivan a pointed look.

“How I have missed you giving orders. Sten would be proud.” Zevran grinned, reaching out to stroke the black-haired man’s cheek.

“Is everyone… Okay?” Theron shifted a little, trying to sit up. Perhaps that would prevent him from falling asleep so easily again.

Zevran nodded, helping the ranger to sit up, propping him up with a pillow against his back.

“Yes, if you don’t count Alistair’s wrenched shoulder or Sten’s sprained ankle that took us three days to find. I think Wynne is in need of a great deal of rest, as well. Leliana has threatened to lock her in her room to ensure that happens, so I have been told.” The blond reported, secondhand information from Alistair that morning when Zevran had briefly left the room to stretch his legs and actually interact with people rather than brood in a corner. “I think Alistair is slightly annoyed that you were quicker than him in reaching the sword; you stole his moment of heroic glory.”

The Dalish elf let out a low, dark chuckle, which trailed off into a coughing fit. Zevran reached for a metal cup of water he’d set on the bedside table, and passed it over.

“Apart from that, Denerim is starting to recover itself, and the last of all of the bodies were burnt two days ago. It’s anyone’s guess, however, as to what to do with the large dragon carcass up on the roof. I think various scholars, alchemists and smiths would wet themselves with glee if they were permitted to go up and harvest materials from the body…” He explained as the other elf drank, and then he sighed. “So, providing you can stay conscious for more than an hour, this is a reassuring sign. Perhaps you will get out of bed soon, yes?” The Antivan suggested. Theron’s body seemed to have healed completely, so it was really only a matter of time before the ranger was up and walking again - hopefully soon.

The ranger nodded slowly, setting the cup down. They lapsed into silence for a time.

“I can’t hear it anymore.” The Dalish elf realised in the quiet of the room, and Zevran frowned. “The song.” He explained. “The Archdemon’s song. It’s gone.”

Theron let out a deep sigh of relief at that, and closed his eyes. Hopefully it would also mean no more nightmares as well. No more nightmares… That alone was enough to cheer him up.

“As is Morrigan.” Zevran commented, and Theron frowned in confusion. He’d known that Morrigan would leave after the battle, but when had that happened?

“When?”

“It seems almost as soon as you killed the Archdemon. I saw her turn into a bird and fly away. Of course, at the time I was far more concerned about you than her.” Zevran shrugged.

“She hasn’t come back?”

“As far as I am aware, no.”

Theron blinked, and let out a sigh. She had told him as much, on that horrible night. He’d never see her again.

“Good.” He mumbled, earning him a look of confusion, but he shook his head slowly to stop any uncomfortable questions from being asked. He didn’t want to think about Morrigan, now or ever. As helpful as she had been in the battle, from what he could remember - a hazy snippet from the defense of the alienage and the sheer amount of darkspawn threatening to overwhelm them several times, freezing opponents solid for Alistair to shatter with heavy sword blows or shield bashes - his memory of her was now forever marred by the more upsetting memory of her ritual. He knew that he owed Morrigan his life, and was far from ungrateful. The ritual had worked after all.

His memory of the battle was fuzzy enough to feel unreal. Had it truly happened? Had it just been a dream? He had a vague memory of running through Fort Drakon, killing darkspawn, and then it jumped to him and Alistair firing ballistas and yelling at the reinforcements. They’d watched Riordan fall from the heavens at some confusing point, sacrificing himself to even the odds. Staring up at a towering, snakelike beast with a torn wing membrane; it had flapped like an injured duck from one part of the roof to another, unable to take wing and incinerate them from the skies. A deafening roar that shook stone and mind, a gleam of steel...

“I used a sword.” He blinked.

“On the Archdemon? Yes, there was one not far from you.” Zevran explained, shaking his head. “Arrows could not get through a dragon skull, but it is anyone’s guess as to why you decided to use a sword with little to no prior training.”

“I… Don’t remember why.” Theron eventually said, frowning to himself.

“It doesn’t matter now. You killed the Archdemon, knowing full well it could kill you, and yet you managed to live afterwards.” The Antivan shrugged, smiling down faintly at the ranger as Theron took another slow drink from the metal cup, gaze downcast. It was reassuring, that he could manage to do that for himself already, and even knew to pace himself even though he was no doubt incredibly thirsty after spending so much of his time asleep.

“Doesn’t feel real.” The Dalish elf said, looking down at himself blankly. “Feels like I should be dead.”

“But you aren’t. You were badly injured, and are still recovering, but this is real. No Fade dream, I assure you.” Zevran answered, leaning in to kiss the other elf’s forehead. “Your bow managed to survive as well.” He added, and the knowledge seemed to cheer Theron up greatly; his grey eyes brightened in a way that sent a strange thrill through the watching assassin. “You armour, however…” Zevran sighed. “I think Wade will be delighted to have the chance to craft another set of armour for you, but Herren may not want to see you in his shop ever again.”

“Ah, well.” The ranger sighed, looking up at Zevran. Armour, and even his precious bow could be replaced, but lives certainly could not. “Are you okay?”

Zevran hesitated, and then smiled.

“Of course I am. I was not too badly injured.” He answered smoothly.

“But you were worried about me.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Of course I was. How… How could I not be, _mi amor_?”

“I wasn’t accusing you of that. But you’ve worried enough now.” Theron shifted over slightly on the bed, even patted the sheets next to him. “You need sleep as much as me, Zevran.”

Zevran smiled, touched by the ranger’s concern. It had taken him a long time to shake off his conviction that Theron viewed him as expendable, that he wasn’t worth caring about. But he’d been proven wrong time and time again, with the ranger being concerned about his health long before they had decided on pursuing a relationship. Theron had wanted him to stay safe during the Battle of Denerim, had kept him at the gates to be sure, and was now trying to get him into bed - sadly, for sleeping rather than anything else this time.

The Antivan briefly considered arguing with an invalid and turning down the offer of a bed, but he had to admit that said bed was far more tempting than his chair. He was glad he was wearing plainclothes rather than his armour - which he’d spent the past two days repairing while Theron slept - so he got up and crawled into bed with the ranger without bothering to undress, careful with him despite how much healing magic and rest he’d had lately. The ranger turned to face him, and Zevran found himself resting his head against one of his warm shoulders, tangling their legs together as he felt an arm drape over his midsection, comfortingly strong.

Theron stretched, getting comfortable as the blond closed his eyes at last. It took him a few minutes to relax, but he realised that Zevran had fallen asleep already, curled up against him. The black-haired man smiled, and then closed his heavy eyelids as well.

They’d defeated the Blight; they deserved a long rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, that's it from me for now! I hope everyone has a good holiday, and I'll be back on the 12th next month.

**Author's Note:**

> I think after this piece I'll be taking a long break for Christmas and the New Year. The next piece is really damn long - 23 pages, and I'm not sure if it's even finished yet, so I'll be struggling with that in the meantime. I think I'll come back around the 12th of January.  
> I have a vague idea for an Inquisition fic regarding Cole and my Inquisitor, but vague is the key word right now. If I do try and write it, it may not be much good. I'm thinking about reading Asunder at some point soon as well, so if anyone out there could let me know if it's any good before I spend money on a copy, that'd be great.


End file.
